| No Images? Click here   This week, we're featuring the story of Bethany Webb and Paul Wilson ― two people who ended up with a strange respect for the lawyer of the man who killed their loved ones. We spoke to reporter Matt Ferner about his piece. (You can read the first part of it below the interview.) How did this story come about? I’ve been writing about the Orange County snitch scandal since about 2014, reporting on it piece by piece as each new shocking allegation of government misconduct came out of the courtroom. I’ve lost count of how many stories I’ve written on pieces of this scandal over the years, maybe 50, maybe more at this point? In my previous reporting, focused around the findings of unconstitutional behavior by law enforcement and prosecutors, I hadn’t had much time to focus on the victims of the shooting and their families. I had seen Beth Webb and Paul Wilson speak in court on several occasions and was left deeply moved and misty-eyed each time by their powerful recounting of how this scandal was impacting them and how much their support for the prosecution team had greatly soured. On the day of the final sentencing, Webb and Wilson, as well as many other victims’ family members, gave just incredibly moving statements to the court; it was devastating and profound to witness. But Webb and Wilson’s personal journey was really moving to me, so I approached them both in the weeks after the final sentencing to hear their thoughts about everything that had transpired. I spoke to both of them for hours separately and their accounts were even more moving and powerful than I had expected. I talked to my editor, Eline Gordts, about our conversations and she agreed there was an important story to tell here that basically never gets told ― how the government misconduct and gamesmanship that taints so many criminal cases not only impacts the defendant whose rights were violated, but also how that impacts the already hurting victims. What was the hardest thing about reporting, writing or editing this piece? For me it was the challenge of identifying, condensing and summarizing all of the primary events, briefs, evidence, argument and emotion that I’d been so fortunate to witness first hand for so long and weave that around the extremely powerful accounts of Webb and Wilson. It’s a very long story in real life, covering almost seven years, the murders of eight people, three lengthy investigative hearings about government misconduct and a scandal of enormous importance and scale. Just organizing all of that information and then writing about that information in a way that is still human, compelling, surprising and moving, it’s quite difficult. Did you learn anything that could help other writers or reporters? It’s kind of a basic lesson I guess, but for me, it’s another reminder of the critical importance of doing the hard work of your own analysis of source materials and evidence, and when you do, relying on your instincts and critical thinking abilities. When writing and reporting about a government scandal this complex, involving so many government agencies, some of which continue to deny wrongdoing, and with so many different and sometimes contrary points of view, it can be difficult to know what the truth of an event is and how to effectively render it. But taking the time to do a close analysis of the evidence, the source evidence ― court documents, rulings, findings, testimony ― not the evidence as an agency or official speaks of it publicly or politically, will make all the difference. What do you want readers to take away? I really want readers to consider the enormous power of the prosecutor. Prosecutors are among the most powerful government agents in the American criminal justice system. They have complete and unrivaled access to the evidence that can determine a person’s guilt or innocence, and it’s on them to share it with the defense. They can cut deals with witnesses, co-conspirators and defendants. They determine the charges a defendant will face, and therefore set the parameters for the eventual punishment a suspect might receive. Because so much of what they do is behind the scenes ― gathering evidence and working with police and investigators as they build their cases ― misconduct is often not discovered until years, sometimes decades, after a person has been convicted. They also generally operate without fear of accountability for their misconduct. That’s because even when cheating is found, prosecutors are rarely punished criminally or by state bar associations. They also are shielded from civil liability even for “malicious or dishonest conduct” thanks to a 1976 U.S. Supreme Court ruling that granted them “absolute immunity.” I’d like readers to ask themselves whether those vast and unique powers, along with the immunity that comes with them, are appropriate. Here's the beginning of the story: A Mass Shooting Tore Their Lives Apart. A Corruption Scandal Crushed Their Hopes For Justice. LOS ANGELES ― One morning last March, in an overlit courtroom in Orange County, the lawyer for the man who killed Bethany Webb’s sister walked over to her and put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry for putting you through this,” public defender Scott Sanders told her. Webb was moved. In the six years since a man named Scott Dekraai had confessed to killing eight people, including Webb’s sister and a close friend, at a beauty salon in Orange County, Sanders was the only official involved in the case who had offered her any personal consolation. The sheriffs and prosecutors, who were supposed to be on Webb’s side, had devoted over half a decade to the pursuit of one goal: winning the death penalty for Dekraai. Webb had begged prosecutors — first District Attorney Tony Rackauckas, and later, when his office was thrown off the case, the California prosecutors who replaced him — to stop seeking death. They ignored her. And Sanders had thwarted them at every turn, revealing egregious prosecutorial misconduct and uncovering a major scandal involving the illegal use of informants inside county jails. Defense lawyers and families of murder victims do not, typically, become allies. But by that March day in court, Webb’s faith in the prosecution was long gone, eroded by years of hearings, years of excuses from prosecutors, and years of false testimony from the DA’s allies in the Orange County Sheriff’s Department. And as Webb’s support for the prosecution declined, she’d developed a deep respect for Sanders, the man defending her sister’s killer. She, and other victims’ relatives, just wanted the case to end. They wanted closure. Webb and other victims’ family members now blamed the prosecution, not the defense, for the years of delays. “They are not doing this for my family,” she remembers thinking. “They are doing this to my family.” Thomas Goethals, the judge who presided over the case, seemed to agree. “I have seen some extraordinary events in my time, but nothing like what has unfolded in this courtroom ― crimes and investigative conduct like I’ve seen here,” Goethals would later say during his final ruling on the case. Webb and other victims’ relatives were hoping the prosecution would finally change its strategy. But Michael Murphy, the California deputy attorney general tasked with taking over the case, dashed their hopes. His office would continue to seek capital punishment for Dekraai, he told the court that March. Webb’s nightmare — and the years-long fight over whether to execute Dekraai — would continue. Read the rest here. Love, |
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